


The Comforts of Home

by palimpsests_and_quill_pens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Cooking, Domestic, Fluff, Food, Gen, M/M, One Shot, Post-Apocalypse, Sweet, after the end of the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 08:09:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palimpsests_and_quill_pens/pseuds/palimpsests_and_quill_pens
Summary: After the world had almost ended, after Aziraphale's place in heaven was no more, he decided to really settle into earth. So he taught himself how to cook. Crowley doesn't help but he invades the kitchen with his antics and Aziraphale doesn't mind at all.





	The Comforts of Home

The bookshop has been closed for an hour. It’s time for dinner and if there’s one thing that Aziraphale loves as much as collecting old books, it’s the art of cooking.

He never really cooked before The End. He was content to marvel over someone else’s artistry and leave a generous tip with lavish compliments to the chef.

But when he woke up after the world had ended, after his place in heaven was no more, Aziraphale decided to really settle into earth as his home.

So, he taught himself how to cook. He mustered up a little kitchen garden in the back of his bookshop. 

Basil in earthy clay pots on the windowsill. 

Delicate thyme sprawling over the lip of a blue porcelain bowl with a crack down the side. 

Big fat lettuce heads just outside the door. 

Even a few nasturtiums for color - those brilliant oranges and pale creamy yellows always brought a smile to his face - to liven up his salads and candy them for showy desserts.

Now, Aziraphale has his sleeves rolled up, consumed with the task of keeping too many pans on the stove from burning. 

Pasta simmers in a fat pot, low and warm. Aziraphale had slaved for hours over that pasta yesterday, reworking one batch after another until the linguine was paper thin. It was cooking up nicely now. _Well worth the extra effort,_ he thought with a small smile on his lips.

There were sauces too, one spicy red and bubbling, the other still a little cold and smooth as fresh milk.

Garlic, onions, and mushrooms give off clouds of fragrant steam, filling the tiny kitchen with a comfort that heaven never did. 

In the oven, fluffy golden rolls rise and rise into perfect yeasty clouds, topped with sizzling butter.

Aziraphale had sampled delicacies spanning time and distance no mere mortal could comprehend, let alone achieve. Yet nothing could compare to the meal he was making now - simple and familiar it might be, but all his own creation.

Aziraphale doesn’t hear him. But he feels him. Feels the air shift, an infinitesimal rise in temperature that makes his lips curve upward, pleased, content. 

Aziraphale doesn’t pause in his cooking, dipping a wooden spoon into the vegetables and sampling a mushroom. He smacks his lips, squints in thought, then reaches for the dried oregano. Adds a pinch.

“You could make yourself useful,” Aziraphale says imperiously.

He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t _stop_ himself even if he wanted to (which he didn’t). His gaze slid over to the doorway.

Crowley stands there, one shoulder leaning against the frame, long limbs loose and relaxed in a way Aziraphale hadn’t seen before The End. No sunglasses in sight, either. He liked this new Crowley. _Reborn,_ he knew better than to say aloud. 

“I’m doing my part,” Crowley replies. “I’m staying out of your way.”

“Very funny,” Aziraphale shoots back. He gestures with the spoon toward a stack of dishes on the counter. “Would you mind setting the table?”

Crowley fidgets, looking like he might come up with some witty protest. Instead, he steps into the room and plucks a stalk of basil left lying on the cutting board.

Aziraphale waves the spoon at him in a shooing motion. “That’s for garnishing the linguine!” he says in dismay.

With a flourish, Crowley slides the stalk of basil between his teeth like a rose. He catches Aziraphale’s hand and tossed the spoon on the counter. Sliding an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, Crowley whirls them into a haphazard dance that might have been a tango, or something else entirely. It didn’t matter.

Aziraphale becomes breathless with laughter, cheeks flushed pink, eyes shining like galaxies as they danced in that cramped little kitchen. 

The food was forgotten, but only for a moment. Not long enough that anything burned. Crowley wouldn’t let that happen. Aziraphale had worked too hard to have his efforts go unappreciated.

Later, when the dancing was done and the food rescued from imminent burning (” _Crowley, you scoundrel, you almost ruined a perfectly good dinner!_ ”) Crowley would pretend to be properly cowed and by way of an apology, he would sit there quietly without a hint of sarcasm while Aziraphale neatly twined the seasoned and sauced linguine around a fork. It was maddeningly slow but it was Aziraphale’s way.

Then Aziraphale holds the fork out to Crowley, eyebrows raised with a pleading look.

As always, Crowley obliges.

He leans forward and takes the bite off of Aziraphale’s fork.

Aziraphale squirms, awaiting Crowley’s verdict.

“’S good,” Crowley says around his mouthful.

Aziraphale smiles so brightly, he _glowed._

Hours later, when they were fuzzy-headed with wine, Aziraphale casts a weary glance at the dishes with a chagrined noise.

“I should learn how to make less of a mess,” he says.

“I’ll take care of it,” Crowley says as he rises, weaving slightly, to his feet. 

As he passes Aziraphale, their fingers drag against each other, an old, well-worn gesture that served as a reminder. 

_We have all the time in the world._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to hit me up on tumblr @palimpsests-and-quill-pens for more Good Omens :)


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